


idée fixe

by cardinalrisk



Category: EXO (Band)
Genre: Angst, Explicit Sexual Content, M/M, Smut, mafia!au, past!Jongdae/Junmyeon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-06
Updated: 2019-03-06
Packaged: 2019-11-12 19:57:20
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,660
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18017426
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cardinalrisk/pseuds/cardinalrisk
Summary: Zitao was an angel in their most ruined state, wings ripped, his feathers strewn through the streets of China, within the folds of silk sheets and warm bodies. Jongdae wanted the chance to ruin what good was left of him.





	idée fixe

**Author's Note:**

> **Warning(s):** Descriptions of blood and minor violence, minor character death, unhealthy relationships, explicit sexual content: choking, rough play, name calling, having sex with a dead body a few metres away?, obsession

“ _It almost seems like you may be forgetting whose side you’re on Kim._ ”

Below Jongdae, the city of Shanghai stretches out in all its glory, lights reflecting against the glass that protects him from the deadly grasp of gravity. The fingers wrapped delicately around his phone tighten a fraction more, the way his jaw tightens seen by none but his own distorted reflection. “I haven’t forgotten my objective,” his voice is smooth, the perfect pretence of calm and collected. “I am simply stating that the perimeters of this mission have gone beyond what HQ prepared for. So you’ll either allow me to continue doing my job or you can book my flight home.”

There’s silence on the other end, drawn out long enough for Jongdae to know he had already won. “ _We will do what we can for you. Our jurisdiction has its own perimeters Kim, we will hold no responsibility for the repercussions if this goes wrong._ ”

 _Of course_. “Tell HQ to be careful. They’re forcing their nose into places where they’re not wanted. I’d hate to see someone get hurt.”

“Chen?” He ends the call as the voice reaches his ears, an airiness about the tone that makes his jaw slacken again. “Who are you talking to?”

Zitao presses himself against Jongdae’s back, arms snaking around his waist and the slope of his nose pressed to his neck. He’s still naked, knew Jongdae liked him best that way and Jongdae twists in the hold, an appeasing smile fitted over his lips. “I told you to stay in bed, didn’t I?”

The younger man looks almost bashful, his obedient nature bleeding to affectionate and needy post-sex. Zitao thrived on the touches of others, platonic or not and Jongdae was willing to indulge, but he also liked making sure Zitao didn’t forget who was in charge of their little arrangement. It was easy to give into the pouty lips, the soft breathiness of his whine; Zitao was the human embodiment of temptation.

“Answer me when I speak to you Zitao.”

“I’m sorry, you took so long. I just wanted to make sure everything was okay.” Jongdae’s hand holds Zitao’s cheek almost tenderly, thumb rubbing over the swollen flesh of his lower lip, dipping into the heat of his mouth briefly. It’s enough for Zitao to dip his head forward, suck Jongdae’s thumb into the wet heat and let his eyes fall closed.

“Back to the room, on your hands and knees for me. Now.”

Zitao seems almost reluctant to pull away, though he doesn’t need to be told twice and Jongdae watches the sway of his hips as he walks. That boy was far too dangerous, something Jongdae shouldn’t be allowing himself the luxury of having but he also no longer gave a shit about what was right and wrong in these circumstances.

He drops the phone on the table as he follows Zitao. He could deal with the repercussions of his forgotten loyalties later.

 

 

Beside him, Zitao is the definition of beautiful.

He had stripped himself of his jacket at some point, the once white of his shirt stained a vivid red. Blood stains the gold of his skin, splattered along his collarbone, the high of his cheek, probably drying in the dark strands of his hair.

It makes Jongdae _want_.

Jongdae can’t work out when everything had become so complicated. He was meant to infiltrate the underground, worm his way into the inner circle with pretty smiles and promises he’d never carry out. They had wanted the leader; Li Jiaheng. Except all Jongdae had found was Yifan and his band of outcasts, the type that didn’t fit into the normal world but not wanted anywhere else either. Zitao had come to him first, had asked for his touch, and had fallen in lust so quickly Jongdae figures it was bound to happen eventually.

The rise and fall of Zitao’s chest is accented by the way the shirt clings to the skin, the knife he holds clasped in his hand still wet with blood. Jongdae watches a drop of vermillion drip from the handle, down the length of the blade before falling to the concrete, mixing with mess that already stains it. Zitao’s eyes are on the body left hunched over, unfocused and Jongdae knows he’s really not _seeing_ anything.

It’s wrong, goddamn sick really but Jongdae’s cock twitches anyway.

“Zitao.” His voice is guttural, harsh at the edges as if he were the one who had screamed each time Zitao had buried his blade in warm flesh again and again and again. “Taozi, come here.”

It takes a few seconds, Zitao’s eyes clear but his words don’t quite register, not right away. But then they do and he’s able to move, eyes travelling from Jongdae to the blade in his hand, palm turning upwards as if he can’t quite accept that he was holding it. The adrenaline is still there, Jongdae can see it in the way Zitao’s eyes dart from one thing to another, the restless way he curls and uncurls his fingers. He’s unsure, Jongdae can tell, doesn’t know if he wants to finally give himself up.

“Taozi.” He pushes – keeps pushing, knowing Zitao couldn’t deny him, wouldn’t let himself.

“Chenchen-“ He can’t tell if Zitao is about to burst into tears or fall to his knees. “Chenchen, please.”

Jongdae wants to soothe, bring him down slow. But he also wants to yank him apart piece by piece, leave nothing but shattered bones and broken memories. It’s conflicting, a battle that rages on within his head, unable to help himself when it came to Zitao, carefully aware of the way he watches him.

Zitao’s gaze is heavy, eyes darker than the shadows patched throughout the room, a miniscule tremble in his lips. There’s a split along the lower lip, the flesh coloured a dark crimson, blood smudged over the corner of his mouth, his chin. The skin beneath is coloured in a way that Jongdae knows it will bruise, blossom into red, purple and blue. Despite it, Zitao doesn’t flinch away when Jongdae cups his cheek, drags his thumb over his lip like he always did. His other hand finds its way to Zitao’s own, fingers gripping his wrist. He twists just enough, has the knife toppling from the Zitao’s hold. It bounces, hitting the concrete two, three times before finally coming to a stop.

“Can you hear me Zitao?”

The nod he receives is hesitant, the harsh sound of Zitao’s breath growing steadier. Jongdae smiles, drops his hand lower to curl it around Zitao’s neck, the pressure of his fingers gentle. Jongdae wouldn’t hurt Zitao, he might break him, leave him in love and alone, but he wouldn’t hurt him.

He thinks Zitao might know that, knows that he can trust Jongdae to take care of him, to push him to the edge and some more, able to know what Zitao could take and what he couldn't. It's why he has no hesitation in tightening his grip, the way Zitao brings his shoulders in, let's Jongdae lead him almost instinctually by this point.

Jongdae presses him face first to the wall, tender skin meeting it with a gentle gasp. Zitao's knees buckle just enough, makes the height difference between them barely an inch and Jongdae presses his hips forward, mouths wetly at Zitao's neck, the skin is salty with sweat, hot beneath his lips. "You did so good Taozi," it's almost a coo, a gentle praise that doesn't match the way his teeth drag across skin, dig in deep enough to leave marks.

He feels the shudder, the way Zitao barely restrains himself. It makes amusement spread, tug at his lips and he backs off enough to reach for the band of the younger's pants, slipping them over slim hips, the subtle swell of his ass. It’s not what he wants really, he wants Zitao spread naked over his bed, beautiful and eager. But Jongdae _needs_ so goddamn badly. To him it didn’t matter. In his eyes, coated in another’s blood, soft and wanton, Zitao was perhaps the most beautiful he had seen him so far. His hand slides under Zitao’s shirt, rubbing over the sensitive dip of his lower back, the other wandering to where Zitao’s stretched open, finger tracing the glass plug Zitao wore for him. 

The two of them were the type that didn’t care about when or where and Zitao had taken it upon himself to make sure he was always ready for him. He had taught him well, really. 

It was wrong, probably. Jongdae was sent here to do some good, and instead he was here, hard at nothing more than the sight of the boy before him, willing and ready for him. Who was to blame him? Zitao was an angel in their most ruined state, wings ripped, his feathers strewn through the streets of China, within the folds of silk sheets and warm bodies. Jongdae wanted the chance to ruin what good was left of him.

Jongdae tugs at the base, notices the way Zitao’s thighs twitch. He still doesn’t make a noise and he does it again, watches the way Zitao opens up around the thickest part, a low whine bitten off halfway. It’s pretty, lube smeared around the stretched rim and Jongdae fucks it back in, does it four, five, six times, until Zitao is finally murmuring a plea, something Jongdae can’t quite hear but understands anyway. 

He wants to tease, but he wants to fuck Zitao stupid more than anything. 

So he relents, tugging the plug free, swallowing the groan that surfaces at the sight of Zitao’s twitching hole. Humming low in his throat, Jongdae’s fingers wind into Zitao’s hair, yanking harshly at the raven strands. Zitao follows easily, eyes barely half mast. Bringing the plug to the younger's lips, he drags the tip of it along the bruised lip, prompting Zitao’s lips open. 

“I don’t want this dirty kitten,” a low drawl, his voice warms the back of Zitao’s neck. “Do you think you can keep it in yourself?”

Zitao doesn’t answer, doesn’t _need_ to. Instead he parts his lips, moans as Jongdae slides the glass past them, doesn’t stop until they close over the thin end before the base. And Zitao presses his hips back, rubs himself against Jongdae with a muffled moan. Jongdae’s hands drop to Zitao’s waist, the pad of his fingers digging into bone to stop the movement. It’s hard enough to bruise, just like Jongdae wants. “Did I say you could move?”

The boy shakes his head, lets out a quiet whine. 

“No, I didn’t. Good pets listen to their masters, don’t they?” Jongdae shifts his attention, trails one hand around to curl around the hard length of Zitao’s cock. He squeezes once, laughs at the way Zitao jumps. “But you’re not a good pet Zitao. You’re just-” his other hand works at getting his own cock free, fisting Zitao’s cock with a pressure on the edge of too tight, “-a greedy little whore, aren’t you?”

If Zitao could answer, Jongdae knows he would. He was always so vocal, so willing to play his role. He never seemed to get tired of getting stretched around Jongdae’s cock, willing to beg, have Jongdae touch and bruise until there was nothing left but _Chen_ leaving lips fucked swollen. More than anything, Zitao craved the praise, knowing he had done well, had pleased him and for all his harsh words, praising Zitao was almost as instinctive as each breath he takes in.

Zitao had done well, had done so, so good and Jongdae wants to _show_ him. So he doesn’t waste any more time, trusts Zitao enough to do as he’s been told. He spits into his hands, fists his own cock with a stuttered breath. Zitao was still wet but Jongdae knew it had been a few hours, didn’t want to _completely_ break him. 

“I’m going to fuck you now kitten, that’s what you want isn’t it?” He presses the head of his cock against the stretched entrance, just enough pressure to tease. Zitao still doesn’t move, always such a good boy for him. “Show me Taozi, fuck yourself on my cock. Show me how badly you want me.”

Given permission, Zitao doesn’t even hesitate, presses his hips back, hands on the wall to support himself. He opens up around Jongdae easy, hot and tight and so fucking _perfect_ he can barely control himself, struggling to not just fuck forward, shove Zitao further against the wall and fuck him to tears. But he forces himself, tries to tighten the fraying rope that holds his control together. It works for now, has Jongdae once again smoothing a hand along Zitao’s back, tipping his head back when Zitao finally stops, stretched to his limit, taking Jongdae’s cock so damn well.

He’s not the type to wait, likes the way Jongdae’s cock drags against his rim with just enough friction to sting, but not hurt. Jongdae likes that too, how Zitao doesn’t just take it, but _wants_ to.

It’s dangerous, the way he lets himself admire the desperate movement of Zitao’s hips, bunching his shirt up around his armpits just so he can watch the way the muscles clench in his back. He wants to pretend, but he can’t, not anymore. Jongdae had forced Zitao to choose, had watched him murder the closest thing he had to family for _him_. He can’t hide anymore.

He doesn’t warn Zitao, simply uses his hand to force him forward, his entire upper body pressed to the wall. And Jongdae lets the ropes snap, uses a grip on Zitao’s waist to fuck into him so hard Jongdae hears him choke, watches the way Zitao’s hands automatically press to the wall for purchase. It’s still not enough - not quite. 

“Spit it out,” he can barely recognise his own voice, nails digging into skin deep enough to break, “I want to hear you fucking _scream_ for me.”

The sound of the plug hitting the floor doesn’t even register in his ears, all he cares about is the man before him, opening him up on his cock over and over again, fucking his claim into the base of his spine so deeply no one would be willing to even try and touch Zitao again. Zitao’s voice is so pretty when he gets fucked, soft and airy, the pitch of his moan climbing when Jongdae fucks in just right, has him clawing at the wall in a vain attempt of finding grip.

Zitao had always been loud, good at leaving his own throat raw and aching. But Jongdae doesn’t think he’s ever been quite so responsive, so sensitive to each brush of skin, the brutal drag of his cock. It makes arousal curl so thick he’s almost choking on it. Zitao was his - his alone. 

It’s not easy to do with the way he fucks into Zitao, but he still manages to wind a hand around Zitao’s neck, fingers resting against the sweat-slicked skin almost gently. He can feel the vibrations that travel up Zitao’s throat with each high pitched moan, the way his Adam’s apple bobs along with every sharpened breath of air. It makes something settle heavy in his gut, the drive of his hips that little bit harder. 

Zitao gets pressed into the wall each time, a string of words Jongdae can’t make out like that of a siren’s song, lulling Jongdae further into a dangerous pit of want. He could do this for hours. Fucking Zitao was bliss, the endless lengths the boy was willing to go to satisfy Jongdae enough to make the proudest of men weak. And now Zitao was _his_. 

The way Zitao’s shirt is bunched gives him a pretty view of the slim expanse of his hips, the way flesh and bone works to create a physique few men would have the luxury of having. He can see the way the muscles in his shoulders tense, hears the sudden pitch in Zitao’s moans and Jongdae’s lips curl back in an arrogant sneer. “Gonna come for me already Taozi?” He knows the tells well enough, knew Zitao would fight it if Jongdae asked him to. “Such a goddamn whore aren’t you? Taking my cock so easily while you’re dressed up all pretty in another man’s blood for me.”

The keening whine Jongdae receives as an answer is enough for him to know and he releases one of his hands momentarily, bringing it down against Zitao’s ass _hard_. Zitao tightens around him like a vice, body strung out tight, and for all the noises Zitao makes, Jongdae thinks the whimper that falls from his lips as he comes is perhaps his favourite. Zitao writhes beneath him and Jongdae fucks him through it, murmuring quiet nothings in order to bring him down slowly. 

He doesn’t expect much, is ready to pull out and finish across the pretty slope of Zitao’s back, but the younger boy presses his hips back again, thighs trembling with the first pinpricks of oversensitivity. “Chenchen, want you to come in me. I-“ Zitao stops, takes in another sharp breath of air. “I can take it, please Chenchen.” 

Jongdae groans, tightens his fingers around Zitao’s waist again and simply _takes_. His orgasm is close, hanging just out of reach, making his thrusts short and hard the more the desperation grows and he presses Zitao into the wall hard, fucking into him one last time before it finally hits. He buries his moan in the back of Zitao’s neck, rutting against Zitao’s ass until the way he clenches around Jongdae becomes too much. 

He pulls out, eyes immediately drawn to Zitao’s ass. Like this, he looks beautiful, his rim puffy and abused, a mix of come and lube making it look sloppy and well used. Zitao seems too out of to consider moving so Jongdae does it for him, pulling his pants back over the slope of his hips, turning Zitao around with a gentle hand around his shoulder. 

Tears stain his cheeks, what was left of the mascara he wore smeared beneath his eyes and Jongdae smiles, reaches up to tuck a strand of sweat wet hair behind his ear. “Good boy,” Zitao’s eyes are glazed over, the praise taking a few seconds to register and he matches Jongdae’s smile, leans heavily into the touch. 

“Chenchen.” It’s said on a soft exhale of air, filled with a heavy emotion Jongdae doesn’t bother to name.

“Come on kitten,” Jongdae moves him along with a grip around his wrist, carefully avoiding the puddle of blood. “Let’s get you cleaned up.”

 

 

Later, when Jongdae leaves the room, phone in hand and a bag in another, Zitao is on his knees. He cradles Yifan’s head in his lap, speaking so softly Jongdae can’t understand the words and there are fresh tears on his cheeks, blood staining his hands and the clean pair of jeans Jongdae had made him wear. It’s sad almost, Jongdae feels the sympathy well up, attempt to breach the surface but the meaner, harsher side swallows it before he can and Jongdae fixes the way his features had softened. Yifan had needed to die, whose hand it had been by didn’t matter. 

“Come Zitao, we’re leaving.” 

His words fall on deaf ears, Zitao’s one-sided conversation continuing and Jongdae barely restrains his anger. Instead he moves closer, reaching for Zitao’s shoulder. He would make him leave even if he had to drag him out. 

“-so sorry. Jiaheng, please forgive me.”

The words make ice travel sharp and sudden down Jongdae’s spine, unable to stop the flinch that accompanies it. He’s not as gentle this time, surging forward to grip Zitao’s hair and _yank_ , the raspy cry that explodes from Zitao’s throat lost on him. 

“What did you just call him?” Jongdae demands, grip hard enough to hurt. “Answer me Zitao.”

Zitao’s eyes are dark, flat and Jongdae feels sick. “Jiaheng. My brother.” His gaze drops to Yifan, moves back to Jongdae. “You let me kill my brother.”

Jongdae feels something sour well up in throat, stumbling back until his back hits the wall. He had fallen for the trap so easily, all he had seen was Yifan, a man that suspected too much and did little to nothing. All along, his target had stared him in the face.

He thinks of Junmyeon, the desperation in his eyes when he had made Jongdae promise to find him, to bring him back so he could watch as his murdered family finally received the justice they deserved. 

He hadn’t thought of Junmyeon in a long time. 

Zitao doesn’t move, looking far too small, far too fragile in the light of the rising sun. 

“You promised me Chenchen. You promised they wouldn’t get hurt if I came with you.” Jongdae can’t find an emotion in Zitao’s tone, the sound lifeless. He wonders just how far he’s broken Zitao. “You lied.”

“I’m sorry.” The words are empty of anything sincere. He pulls himself together, reminds himself why he was here, why this had to be done. He couldn’t have Zitao if Jiaheng was caught, wouldn’t be able to kiss him breathless and fuck him stupid if he went home again. He figures Zitao can probably tell. 

There’s a breath of silence. Zitao looks up at him, the circles under his eyes seem darker, his cheeks gaunter and Jongdae wonders if he’s eaten recently. Pale lips part in soundless words and Zitao no longer looks like the boy Jongdae had taken home the first time. The light was gone, that _something_ Jongdae had never been able to put a name to, the thing that made Zitao stand out against all others, it was missing. Zitao looked like a shell of what he had once been. 

Jongdae wonders if he deserves him in the end.

“I forgive you.”

He takes what’s left anyway.


End file.
